


Cry in the Desert

by thundercrackfic



Series: Not What We Have But What We Enjoy [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale discovers food, Aziraphale discovers stories, Aziraphale's inner monologue is an asshole, Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Child Death, Crowley's Name is Crawly | Crawley (Good Omens), Gen, Historical, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Minor Character Death, Nonbinary Crowley (Good Omens), Not physically but War is Hell, Pre-Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, War is hell, Wing Grooming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23871067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thundercrackfic/pseuds/thundercrackfic
Summary: Once upon a time, humans had negotiated their conflicts with words or, at worst, fists. Back then, Aziraphale had known every one of them by name. No longer. Five centuries after Adam and Eve had been cast out of Eden, there were too many humans, and they’d invented too many creatively violent ways of doing harm to one another. Aziraphale had run out of miracles trying to save the innocent, and War kept coming. He'd all but given up when a beacon of need called him from a battlefield into the trackless desert.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Original Female Character(s)
Series: Not What We Have But What We Enjoy [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1720336
Comments: 15
Kudos: 40





	1. Out of Grace

**Author's Note:**

> CW for death (from injuries sustained in a wartime assault on civilians) of an original child character who never speaks.
> 
> Many thanks to hope_in_the_dark for their beta read.

A beacon of need called to Aziraphale across the desert. There would be little he could do, but he couldn’t help but heed the call. It was how he was made.

_Was it? Then why are there no other angels here? Am I different from them? —what a stupid question, Aziraphale. You know you are different._

Once upon a time, humans had negotiated their conflicts with words or, at worst, fists. Back then, Aziraphale had known every one of them by name. He’d smiled their infant tears away and blessed their matrimony. He’d counseled them all. He could often wade in to their arguments and offer wisdom. He could miracle away the worst of the hurts, if it came to physical blows.

No longer. Five centuries after Adam and Eve had been cast out of Eden, there were too many humans, and they’d invented too many creatively violent ways of doing harm to one another. Princes established rule over farmers, and they quarreled with each other, and didn’t care what price their arguments exacted from the innocent. Aziraphale couldn’t heal all the hurt, not anymore. He tried to anyway, because he couldn’t bear the suffering without trying to end it.

The last century had been especially hard. The population had exploded and he’d never learned the names of some of the humans he found dead. That had happened today, again. A call for help had led him to a village, too late to avert disaster and death, too weak to magic everything right again.

It was a desperate age. God’s grace had thinned to a threadbare veil across the land, and there was little happiness or virtue around to replenish him. He was so tired. His miracles were long spent. He’d been played out since the previous winter, months ago. For the twenty previous winters, if he was honest.

 _How often have you lied? You’re a bad angel_.

He ought to give up, return to Heaven, rest, recharge. Perhaps he could drum up some reinforcements this time. But time passed oddly in Heaven sometimes, and he couldn’t bring himself to leave the suffering farmers behind without their guardian angel, not for a single day.

_What has your presence done for them lately? Some guardian you are._

Tonight was the aftermath of the latest in a string of disasters. He’d arrived, too late, to what had once been a prosperous collection of little farms. A cluster of interrelated families, now mostly dead or enslaved, both the farmers and their livestock.

There had been a lot of blood. And yelling, and screaming, and broken sobbing after. The poor children. The innocent animals. The bounty of the once-tidy vegetable plots had been spoiled, torn under the hooves and wheels of skirmishing fighters. Mothers and daughters assaulted, babies trampled, elders slaughtered. So much wasted. Much more than one stretched-thin angel could restore, nevermind prevent.

_Give up. Give in. You can’t do anything useful._

Aziraphale wrathfully quashed that doubting voice. Out there in the desert was more human fear and illness and need. Maybe just one or a couple of humans. He couldn’t turn his back on them, he just couldn’t. Maybe he’d have enough grace to help.

_Probably not._

He walked on, into the dark.

* * *

Aziraphale had, a few times, reported Upstairs, pleading for more angels to come down to Earth to help. “Why?” Gabriel had asked, all naïve bafflement. “All those innocents are ours. When they die they come to a better place: here!” He spread his arms, his gesture encompassing the light and serenity of Heaven, and smiled indulgently.

“Well, yes, but it seems to me they don’t need to _suffer_ quite so much while they’re on Earth,” Aziraphale had replied. “And Earth is _so_ wonderful, when there’s peace. Just two or three more field agents would make _so_ much difference.”

“I think you’ve been on Earth too long. What is it, centuries now?” Gabriel said. “You’ve gone native. You can’t get too involved with their little lives. Suffering is the _point_ for humans. Suffering winnows the righteous from the damned.”

“Please, Gabriel, I humbly request that you please listen. I have been there a long time, it’s true. But because of that I’ve seen how suffering works; it _removes_ choices, makes them _less_ free to follow a path _truly_ chosen of their own—”

“Aziraphale. It sounds to me like you’re criticizing His plan for the humans. They ate the forbidden fruit; they suffer. That’s the _deal_. You know that.”

 _In fact, these humans didn’t eat the fruit, they’re thirty generations removed from the ones who did_ , Aziraphale thought. He didn’t say it aloud. Instead: “Of course, I would never criticize Her plan, it just seems to me that if we have the power to ease the suffering without otherwise interfering, it would be—”

“I don’t want to hear any more of your opinions, Aziraphale,” Gabriel said, coldly. “Or your _requests_. Or your _questions_ —” this with a stern look and a downward-pointing finger, indicating where angels with _questions_ went. Aziraphale wrung his hands.

Gabriel’s expression shifted to fatherly understanding. “You’re a diligent worker, Aziraphale, but you’ve lost sight of the big picture. You work too hard on things that don’t matter. You’re tiring yourself out needlessly. Stop wasting your miracles on the unimportant humans. Influence the leaders and they’ll win souls for Heaven for you.”

 _No human is unimportant_ , Aziraphale thought, but didn’t say; he didn’t think Gabriel would agree. He was learning not to say things to Gabriel about humans, but he had hoped he could win support this time. He was beginning to feel full to bursting of words that had no ears to receive them.

Gabriel grabbed Aziraphale by the shoulder and shook it a little, to Aziraphale’s shock. “You don’t need to do any of this,” he said, his face all compassion, the pressure of his archangelically strong grip and the power of the aura underneath it conveying something else. “Just do what you’re ordered to do, and you’ll find you have more than enough resources. Trust us. It’s all part of the Great Plan.” He released his grip, and punched Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Now get back down there.”

When Aziraphale came back to his senses he was already passing the gates of Heaven. He paused. He considered turning back, finding an acquaintance for a little mutual feather-combing, but he felt no connection to anyone up here anymore, and there was a force pulling him back toward Earth. Another battle, more need.

He spread his wings, and flew down, feeling very lonely ( _no one misses you up here_ ). At least he could talk to God. She never answered him, not since he’d given away the sword ( _you lied about it, don’t forget, you don’t deserve Her love_ ). Despite Her silence, it was still a comfort to pray.

* * *

A cold gust of wind blew sand in Aziraphale’s face, stinging his eyes, breaking him out of his reverie. He’d come closer to the locus of human need while he’d walked. Two—no, three humans, only one of them adult. Physical pain, illness, anguish, and despondency flowed sluggishly past him, thicker as he approached their source. Only a faint trickle of love sweetened the sorrow.

Surely, he could help. There must be something he could do. He followed that thread of love toward its source. It was so thin, but it nourished him a little, like drops of water on a parched man’s lips.

He found them nestled in a hollow in the landscape. The desperate humans had run as far from the ruined village as they could, and sought shelter from wind where an intermittent stream (now dry) had carved a bank and deposited a pile of wood.

There was a woman, and a ragged bundle of worn woolen blanket wrapped around two children—two suffering children, in pain, huddled against her. How had they come here? She must have carried them. She’d clearly tried to start a fire, but not successfully.

Hers was the despondency, her emotional state nearly blank. The tiny spark of love was hers, too, a guttering flame, barely burning. Much as he’d like to snap his fingers and heal all the pain here, Aziraphale lacked the strength. But there would be something he could do, however small. He’d learned long since to make the most of his limited power, waiting for opportunities to expend it for greatest effect.

 _God, please grant me strength to help them_ , he prayed as he stepped forward. There was no answer, but he knew She could hear him. Whether he deserved Her aid remained to be seen.

The woman’s head snapped up, but she remained sitting. Resigned to her fate. She was very young.

“Be not afraid,” he said. Not sure if he would be able to do any miracles at all, he didn’t try to put on any kind of angelic show. (He didn’t know it, but to the woman, he did glow, faintly. Aziraphale never could help giving love back where it was given to him, and even at his weakest it gave him radiant charisma.)

“Are you an angel?” she asked. “Come to take them to Heaven?” Her eyes darted to the still bodies of the children, then stared at him again. “I saw you in the town.”

He looked away from her flat gaze. In that grim battlefield, he’d spent most of his miracles on the first day. He was supposed to hide his angelic nature, but he couldn’t bring himself to waste energy on camouflage anymore.

He wasn’t supposed to interfere directly in the course of human battles, but he had tried, surreptitiously, to reduce the suffering of innocents. His effort hadn’t done much good. He’d put out fires that endangered stored food, but the food was then stolen by the invading warriors. He’d turned swords aside from women and children, only to see them enslaved. ( _Why does She allow the misery of slavery?_ _No, don’t ask._ _No questions. You know where angels who ask questions go._ ) In the end he hadn’t been able to do much except alleviate the pain of the dying, making their last moments peaceful and painless.

“I don’t want to take them to Heaven, no. I hope very much that they will live. If you’ll allow it, I’ll try to do something for them. I might not be given healing for them. But I can ease their suffering.”

She nodded and untucked one corner of the blanket, revealing two boys, one with the prominent front teeth of a seven-year-old, the other younger, perhaps three or four. Aziraphale knelt next to them. The searing pain was the older boy’s; he had a badly broken wrist and cracked ribs. His face was bruised, his nose bloody, and he breathed through open, dry lips. Other injuries blended together into a miasma of pain. He seemed feverish. “Trampled?” Aziraphale asked quietly. The woman nodded. The younger one was in less obvious pain, but his brain seemed muzzy. Head injury, likely. “And you?”

“I’ll heal.”

He looked at her. She had plenty of pain. But it seemed more mental than physical, and she was under control. She might not heal, but she would survive. Aziraphale nodded.

“All right. A fire would help to warm everyone.” He handed her his wooden tinderbox—worn, like a human, in a belt pouch; no more pocket dimensions for him. She didn’t seem to know what to make of it, so he opened it and pulled out the flint and pyrite and struck them together to make a spark. Her eyes widened in quick comprehension, and she took the stones from him, turning to the wood she’d laid for a fire.

Aziraphale considered what he could do for the little boys with the scraps of power he had left, the trickle that had come back to him during the hours he’d walked. Healing everything outright was definitely beyond him. The younger boy would probably be fine with rest and pain relief and some luck. ( _And food, too, don’t forget, Aziraphale, mortals must eat and drink._ )

The older one’s ribs would heal if he could rest, but the broken arm and the incipient infection were bad. There might be other injuries. Alleviating the pain would be a constant drain on his resources. But he could put them both into a deep sleep, and then they wouldn’t notice their pain for a while. He could set the broken arm the human way, with the boy asleep, and then use the last of his power to bless away the infection. Maybe.

Blessings were so much easier than miracles. Just calling the attention of the Divine to someone in need. Not the more insistent demand of a miracle. If he could bless them asleep, the day’s rest would allow the children to heal and perhaps help him to gather enough power to try the infection again, and to deal with the older boy’s internal injuries.

While he’d been evaluating the boys, the woman had gotten a fire started and was feeding it twigs. It crackled merrily. “Oh, well done,” he said with a smile. The fire’s warmth and golden light were a comfort to the woman, too. The pressure of her suffering lessened — her mental pain was no less, but her physical discomfort and her fear both eased — and it made him happy to have been able to do that much for her. No miracle required for that, just a tinderbox, a bit of human ingenuity, and compassion.

He did what he could for the older boy; the woman helped him set the broken wrist. Then they rolled the sleeping boys tightly together in the threadbare blanket to keep them from tossing and turning in their sleep and to keep the shocky older boy warm. Aziraphale laid his cloak over them both; he could handle the nighttime cold without it.

With the boys settled, Aziraphale gazed numbly into the fire. He was supposed to be on his way to a distant market town for a blessing. He was days late already, in fact; it seemed likely he’d miss the opportunity now. But he could hardly leave these people out here all alone. Maybe he’d stay put for a day to give the humans time to rest and recover, then they could travel with him to the town.

After many minutes of woolgathering, Aziraphale tuned in to the fact that the popping and crackling of the fire was augmented by the regular clicking of stones. The woman was striking the flint and pyrite together, bringing off sparks. He realized that she was doing systematic experiments, varying the angle and force she applied to see how to produce the brightest spark and how to direct it where she wanted it. He was struck by her absorbed curiosity. Even after all that tragedy and loss, this human could still be inquisitive, striving to learn more, to do things better. He felt a little warm spark of wonder at human resilience and intelligence for the first time in weeks.

“That’s very clever of you,” Aziraphale said with a soft smile. Self-conscious, the woman folded her hand around the stones and made as though to give them back to him. He shook his head. “No, keep working with them.” He watched her for a moment more, then said: “My name is Aziraphale. What are you called?”

“Dilnaz, daughter of Farouk, may he rest in peace,” she said, drawing a bright spark out of the stones. “The tall boy is Zarir. The younger one is Persis. Called Persi.”

“Are they your sons?”

“Persi is mine. Zarir is my nephew, his cousin. His mother is dead. Father, too.”

She seemed young to have a boy of four, but then all humans seemed young to him, after centuries of watching over them. And the expression on her face was worn, old before its time. “I’m sorry for what happened in your village. I tried to help, but...” he trailed off.

“God did not will our survival,” she said with a shake of her head.

The little bit of happiness he’d felt guttered out. “Evidently not,” he whispered. He sighed, suddenly feeling ashamed. “You should sleep. I’ll keep watch.”

“I cannot sleep. When I close my eyes, the horsemen come.”

“I will protect you.” Ordinarily that would have meant setting wards, but that effort was beyond him now. There was one protective action left to him. The woman had figured out he was an angel anyway, the clever thing. He unfurled his wings and gestured at the ground next to him.

Dilnaz crept closer and curled up against his side. He wrapped an arm around her, and then blanketed her with his wing. She relaxed completely at his touch, as he’d known she would. The other wing he tilted to cover the children. Peace enveloped the humans, and Aziraphale sighed with satisfaction.

He kept watch, not sleeping. Angels do not sleep.

The night was quiet. The children slept deeply. The woman’s sleep was disturbed, but every time she twitched, he directed his angelic love at her, willing her blessed peace. When he had nothing else to give, he could still love. Sometimes, it was enough.

Zarir died just before the sun rose. Aziraphale could only watch and bless his infant soul as it faded. As the body started to cool, he used his free arm to unwrap the boys, rolled the dead one like a log out of the blanket, and pulled the younger boy toward him. He sheltered the still-living child with his wing, leaving the dead boy on the sand, his face toward Heaven.

* * *

It was very cold, but angels don’t feel cold. At least, they’re not supposed to. Dilnaz woke early and slept fitfully until after sunrise. She lifted her head and Aziraphale lowered his wing a little, keeping her close. She didn’t seem inclined to move away, and her warmth comforted and anchored him.

He told her about the boy. “He is with God now,” she said. She wiped away a tear.

“Yes, he is.” Aziraphale hoped so. How could a child not be good enough to go straight to God? But was it wrong to assume anyone deserved that? He didn’t know, and he felt ashamed for not knowing, but also angry that he didn’t know.

_No anger. Wrath is sinful. Smooth it out, Aziraphale. Put the dead out of your mind. Think about the living._

Dinaz swallowed. It was a loud sound in the predawn quiet. “Will Persi wake?” she asked. “He should be hungry.” She hugged her chest.

“He will wake eventually,” Aziraphale said, “but I should probably wake him sooner rather than later. He won’t heal without food and water.”

“Can you wake him soon?” she asked, rubbing at a spot above her heart. “My breasts are full. I can feed him.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I should have realized,” Aziraphale said, folding up his wings and reaching for the blanket-wrapped boy. “I shouldn’t have assumed he was weaned. He’s a big boy for one still nursing.”

“He was weaned. I had a baby. His sister. She died when the horsemen came.”

“No! Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry—”

“She’s with God now, too,” she said, as more tears ran down her face. “But I have milk for my son. Can you rouse him enough for him to feed? I haven’t suckled him for most of a year. He might not remember how. It might be easier if he’s sleepy.”

Again, Aziraphale was astonished at the resilience of humans. Of this woman. Her pragmatism and cleverness in the face of unspeakable tragedy. He did as she asked, reaching gently into the boy’s infant mind to stir it toward consciousness. It wasn’t hard to keep the child from waking completely. He was in shock from the trauma he’d experienced. Deep in his soul, the little boy only wanted to be held by his mother, to have a full belly, and to sleep. To be sheltered, loved, warm, and safe.

Aziraphale could relate.

He carefully lifted the boy into Dilnaz’s lap, cradling his hurt head. She cuddled him into the crook of her arm, pulling down one shoulder of her mantle, gripped one engorged breast with thumb and fingers, and aimed a squirt of milk at the boy’s mouth. His eyelids fluttered and he licked his precious little dry lips. She nudged his lower lip with her nipple, and he latched on sleepily. In seconds he was drawing deeply at her breast, his throat moving rhythmically as he swallowed the life-sustaining milk.

Dilnaz looked up at Aziraphale triumphantly. She was bursting with love for her son, and it swept over the angel like a breath of fresh air. He turned it right around into a blessing on her breasts, to keep the milk flowing. This blessing was as easy as breathing for him; he gave it to women, cows, goats, all creatures he passed, almost without thinking, almost every day. Mothers could always feed babies, theirs and others’, as long as their milk flowed.

While the woman attended to her son, Aziraphale carried the body of the older boy out into the desert. He hugged the corpse and offered one last benediction. “Go well,” he said. “Please convey my love to Her.”

_It’s pointless, Aziraphale. The soul is long gone. You’re talking to nothing, an empty vessel._

Aziraphale sat vigil over the body until midday, sending his love to follow the poor child’s soul wherever it traveled. The daytime heat had created air currents that drew vultures. Their circling had attracted other attention; wild dogs poked heads above the low hills. After a final prayer, Aziraphale stood, brushed off his robes, turned, and walked away. He didn’t look back. There was nothing more to be done for the dead; time, again, to try to do something for the living.

_Why do you keep trying? You’ll only fail. These wars are too much for you. Give up._

No, he had to try. He returned to the campsite.

The child was suckling again. The mother would need food and water to sustain the healing child’s demands. Water was no problem; it was the smallest of miracles to pull it right out of the air to fill his water skin. She drank deeply.

Food in this desert was a little more difficult, but there, too, Aziraphale could help, even now. He prayed to Heaven and asked for the tiniest of blessings, and just like that his hands were filled with manna bread. Dilnaz’s eyes flared in awed surprise.

“Eat, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He broke a piece and held it to her lips.

She took it and closed her eyes in rapture, chewing slowly. “I have never tasted anything so rich,” she said. “Is that manna?”

“Straight from Heaven,” he replied with a little smile. He kept feeding her. At length, he helped her turn the boy around to nurse from her other breast, careful not to jostle the child’s bruised head.

After a few more minutes of fitful suckling, The boy dropped off her nipple, sleeping deeply again. Dilnaz declined the last piece of the manna that remained in Aziraphale’s hand. “Will you not eat the blessed bread?” she asked him.

“I have no need to eat,” he said.

“ _Can_ you eat?” she asked. “You look like people. Can you eat like people do?”

Aziraphale paused. In fact, he hadn’t ever tried. The fruits and animals in Eden had been off-limits, and Adam and Eve’s fateful eating of the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge had put him off of the idea entirely. It seemed corrupting.

She took his pause for a denial. “It is a shame you cannot taste it. It is Heavenly. I could live forever, out here, with only manna to eat, and never be unhappy.”

“I probably could taste it, if I tried. I hadn’t thought to.” He considered the piece in his hand, brought it to his nose and mouth. It smelled faintly spicy, of cardamom and something floral. He couldn’t quite bring himself to just pop it into his mouth. He touched it with the tip of his tongue. A new sensation jolted through him like lightning.

“Oooh!” He looked at Dilnaz in astonishment. “That’s—that’s—”

“Is it sweet?” she asked.

“Is that what ‘sweet’ is?” Aziraphale responded. He touched it with his tongue again, thrilled at the flavor. It tasted like affection felt.

Dilnaz actually smiled. “Go on, take a bite.”

He steeled himself, parted his teeth, and took a tiny nibble. _Sweet_ filled the inside of his mouth. _Spice_ blossomed inside his head. His teeth pressed together — some things seemed to work by instinct — and he felt the bread resist, just a little, and _smooth_ unlocked more flavors onto his tongue. He didn’t know the words yet for all of these things, but later he would come to understand that there was _salty_ and a tiny bit of _sour_ and _fruity_ and _fatty_ and yet it was mild, too, sliding easily down his throat. It was an unprecedented set of sensations. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to the pleasure of his first bite of food. A low hum of pleasure escaped his lips, unbidden.

He savored the morsel of manna, making it last. Then he licked the crumbs off his fingers, which made Dilnaz laugh. “I think you enjoy eating,” she said.

“It seems I do,” Aziraphale said, sheepishly. “But I enjoy so many things that humans do. Art, and music. Stories and games. Villages and rituals. Humans are delightful.”

“When they are not killing,” Dilnaz said, gazing south, toward what had once been her home.

Aziraphale looked with her. A plume of smoke was still visible. The last crumbs of manna turned to dust in his mouth.


	2. Dreams and Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Aziraphale sleeps, and learns about stories that are not true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crawly isn't in this chapter, but he'll show up in the next one, don't fear.

They stayed through the day by the little fire. Persi roused around noon, fretful; Aziraphale could sense both pain and hunger from him. He asked Heaven for more manna, and it was granted. Dilnaz fed the boy a few crumbs, and then nursed him to sleep. She set him down on the worn blanket and stretched her arms, her expression worried.

“We can’t stay here,” she said, looking again toward the distant plume of smoke.

“No, not for long.”

“Are you waiting for something? Someone?”

“No, there’s no one else,” Aziraphale said, unable to keep the sadness from his voice. “Your child needed rest. Maybe, in the morning, I’ll be given healing for him, enough to make it safe for us to walk.”

She considered him. “You don’t know? If you can heal?”

Aziraphale sighed. “As you know, these have not been prosperous years. I find—I—” It was remarkably difficult to admit to a human, but he was too tired to dissemble. “I don’t have enough miracles for everyone.”

“Is God not all-powerful?”

“Yes, She is omnipotent and omniscient, but I am not God. Unfortunately.” He felt guilty. Was that blasphemous? No, just the truth. He looked at Dilnaz. She was clearly disappointed. “I’m doing everything I can,” he said, and it sounded a bit petulant.

She considered him. He couldn’t read her mind, but he could sense a flurry of emotions under her skin as she thought. He realized that he was facing a human of exceptional intelligence and insight who’d had the misfortune to be born a lowly farm girl in a village in the way of warring princes. So much potential here. What could God intend by placing a woman like her in such a situation? It was baffling and frustrating, and he wished God would just explain Earth to him.

She was talking, and he hadn’t heard. “What?”

“Where did your wings go?”

Aziraphale felt ashamed again. It was against policy, these days, to reveal his angelic nature to humans, but the sheep was truly out of the paddock now. “I usually keep them hidden, but I can bring them out.”

“Would you, please? They are so beautiful and peaceful. I would like to see them again.”

He shouldn’t, but she had so little to be happy about. He bent his wings into the corporeal realm, and they flared above him.

She had to squint in their reflected light, but she blinked and gazed through the discomfort. She breathed out a long _aaaaaahhh_. She reached toward one wing, looking at Aziraphale for permission. He nodded. Her fingers trailed lightly across his feathers. He barely felt her physical touch, but her bliss was palpable, drifting across him like incense-scented breeze.

“Do you like them?” he asked. He had no idea why he asked that.

She smiled. “Beautiful,” she breathed. “Like lamb’s wool. Softer. Whiter. Like clouds.” Her fingers carded through the small coverts of his underwing, and he basked in her admiration. Then: “What’s this?” she asked. She pulled on a bent feather.

“They just need a little attention, I haven’t had time,” Aziraphale said, embarrassed.

She looked at the boy sleeping on the blanket next to her. “There is time now. May I help you?”

Again, it seemed transgressive, but Aziraphale couldn’t think of any reason why he shouldn’t let a human groom his wings. He brought his off wing closer and showed her how to straighten feathers and zip barbs together. Her fingers were light and quick and soon Aziraphale was utterly relaxed under her efficient ministrations.

“Lie down and I can do the other side,” she said, and in a daze, he complied. He stretched out on the sand, pillowing his head on his forearms, and let his wings relax. It had been so long since anyone had run fingers through his wings.

There was a cry. The Sun had moved. Disoriented and muzzy-headed, Aziraphale struggled upward to his knees, snapping his wings away. “What—what—”

“Shhhh,” Dilnaz said. “You slept. It’s all right. Persi is waking now.”

“Slept?” Aziraphale looked at the Sun. It had moved rather fast. “Angels don’t sleep.”

Dilnaz didn’t respond, only cuddled the boy. “I think he’s in pain,” she said.

Aziraphale tried to banish the fog from his mind. She was right; the boy’s pain was sharp. “A little, but it’s not terrible. I can help.” He reached a hand to the boy’s forehead and asked for healing. A surprisingly strong burst of energy pulsed into the boy, smoothing away the swollen pressure on his delicate brain. The healing wasn’t total — there was still a skull fracture that would take time to knit — but the brain swelling had caused the worst symptoms of pain and cognitive impairment, and the boy would improve rapidly.

Dilnaz looked at the boy and then at Aziraphale. “Did you—is he—”

“He will live, and be healthy. He still needs some time to heal.”

“Thank you,” Dilnaz said, crushing the boy to her chest and leaning over him. She sobbed. “Thank you.”

He put an arm around her shoulders, and then his wings too, and only then did he realize that his wings were neatly groomed, root to tip. She must have spent the whole afternoon at it, and he really had slept. He wished he remembered sleeping, but it was blank. He did feel refreshed, though.

* * *

The next morning, they began their walk across the desert toward the city. Dilnaz had no living family and no other place to go. Aziraphale had Heaven’s maps memorized—he’d drawn most of them himself, after all—so knew where to travel to avoid being noticed, up and down hills, away from pastureland and river bottoms where farmers dwelled and horsemen preyed. It would be a journey of more than half a month, the nights mostly dark through a new Moon.

When the Moon was truly new, even Aziraphale was night-blind. A few days into the trip, the boy was alert more of the time, and had even walked for a few hundred cubits here and there. In the evening, with the fully dark night dangerous around them, the child was whining, bored and still in some pain and unmoored from the peaceful rhythms of his young life.

“Blessed angel,” Dilnaz asked, “Do you know any stories to tell?”

“I have only one story,” he said.

“Then tell it, and maybe Persi will listen.”

Aziraphale settled into a comfortable position. He closed his eyes briefly to pray for inspiration, then opened them and said: “In the beginning was the Word...”

Persi did listen, and soon enough he’d fallen asleep, just as Aziraphale was getting into the fun bit of how Adam had named everything. (At least, everything he’d noticed. Once Eve was around, there were lot more things to name, Aziraphale never was quite sure whether those other things hadn’t existed before Eve had, or if Eve was just exceptionally good at noticing things.)

“You are a good storyteller,” Dilnaz said as she cradled her sleeping son.

“Thank you. I do like stories.”

“Shall I tell you one?”

“I would be delighted.”

Dilnaz looked into the distance for a few moments. “Once upon a time, there was a prosperous town. A maiden and a boy, not yet a man, lived there. All was peaceful and everyone had plenty of food always.”

Aziraphale was transfixed by her moving hands, accompanying her voice. The hand motions were ritualized, her gestures denoting things: boy, girl, city, bounty. Persi settled into his lap to listen, and Aziraphale curled a hand around his little body.

“But then horsemen came and killed everyone in their town and burned down the barns. Everything that had been plentiful was gone.”

_Oh, it’s her story_ , Aziraphale thought.

“Out of the whole town, only the maiden and the boy-nearly-a-man survived. They traveled far, looking for safety.”

_It must be someone else’s story._

“One day, across the desert, they saw a walled city. They approached the gates and asked for sanctuary. A guard stood in their way. The guard said to the maiden: ‘Only women are inside these walls.’ The maiden said to the boy-nearly-a-man: ‘Let us go find a place where we can stay together,’ and they left to the north.”

_What strange land is this?_ Aziraphale had not heard of it before. He would have to ask her.

“The maiden and boy-nearly-a-man traveled long. To the north there was only wasteland. They starved. They returned to the walled city and begged to be allowed within. The guard threw them a loaf of bread and told them: ‘Only women live here.’ The boy-nearly-a-man told the maiden to enter without him, but she would not. They left to the south.”

“What happened next?” Aziraphale asked, rapt.

“They traveled long. The south held wild animals. Some had huge teeth. Some hunted by night. Some were not afraid of fire. There was no safety. The two returned to the walled city. The guard told them: ‘All who enter here are women.’ The young woman said to the young man: ‘I can walk no longer. I am sorry, but I must enter here.’ He said: ‘I must be with you. Let them try to stop me.’ The guard said: ‘Turn back, for only women live within these walls.’

“The young woman walked through the gate. She found a beautiful golden city with fountains and fruit trees and music. She found her rags had changed into a beautiful robe. Her skin was clean. Her hair was long. She turned around to look at her friend. She saw the young man’s body changed. She was now a beautiful woman. Her eyes and face were the same, but it was as the guard had warned. In entering the city, he had become a woman. And that’s the end of the story.”

Aziraphale blinked. “That—what? Where did that happen? Was the guard a demon?”

“It’s a story,” she said. “It didn’t happen.”

“I don’t understand what you mean. Whose story is it?”

“My story.” At Aziraphale’s continued confusion, she continued: “I made it up. In my head.”

“What—when?”

“Just now. When I told it.”

Aziraphale boggled. “You—made up a story.”

“Yes? Is that strange?”

“It’s—” Aziraphale struggled to find words. “Creative. Why tell a story that isn’t true? Isn’t that lying?”

She shrugged. “It’s not lying, it’s storytelling.”

Aziraphale couldn’t keep the conflict off his face.

“Usually, a story has a meaning,” Dilnaz offered.

“What did this story mean?”

The woman looked far away. “What do you think it means?” She asked.

A riddle, then. Aziraphale could play. He thought. “Well, clearly the boy should have listened to the guard.”

“Why is that?”

“Well, if he had listened then he wouldn’t have been transformed into a woman.”

Dilnaz cocked her head. “Was that bad, becoming a woman?”

Aziraphale felt like several stones had been dropped into the previously still pond of his mind. _A woman would not think it was bad to be a woman, but a man would. The answer to the question depends on who is answering it._ Then he pondered the transformation itself. _The world was created by God, all-knowing and all-powerful. Change can only be away from God’s desire and therefore, evil. But humans don’t work that way. They were constant agents of change. They make war, but also invent tinderboxes. What did God intend by creating creative beings? Were they evil or good? They weren’t either. They were both, intimately mixed._

“I don’t know,” he answered her question honestly. His mind still rocked like a canoe in waves.

“My mother always told me stories. Her sister, too, my aunt, and their mother, my grandmother, were all great storytellers.” The corners of her lips pulled down. “Mama—” And then she broke down and cried, her pain slicing through Aziraphale, and he could only wrap a wing around her and her child. He vowed to protect this precious clever story-inventor and find her a place of refuge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The universe of Good Omens takes its Biblical source material moderately literally, so it seems to me that his love of books and especially fiction and poetry is one of the ways that Aziraphale is a transgressive sort of angel. I wanted to think about what he might have thought about encountering fiction for the first time. Also I just needed him to be a little less lonely in a pre-slash era.


	3. Demon at the Gate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and his human co-travelers make it to the city, but a demonic presence guards the gate. Aziraphale confronts them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They/them pronouns for Crawly because Crawly hasn't entirely figured out the whole gender thing yet.

The walk was long and uneventful. Aziraphale’s mental maps kept them away from other humans. He missed the variety of humans, the constant pressure of their rapidly moving minds and hearts on his. But the solitude brought peace. Years of war had brought so much suffering. Aziraphale felt a guilty sort of relief to have found some distance from it, to be walking where war wasn’t, for a while.

One afternoon, they stumbled across a human skeleton. It had not been a large person, maybe a small woman, or a boy. Aziraphale remembered the body of the boy he’d left in the desert and at once he was on the ground, weeping. _Such a useless guardian angel, couldn’t even protect that child. How many more have died while you’ve walked the desert?_

When he got control of himself, he found Dilnaz’s arm around his shoulders. Even Persi was patting his head. “I’m so sorry,” Aziraphale said. “I just need a moment.” He dried his eyes on the sleeve of his gown.

“I didn’t know that angels could suffer, too,” Dilnaz remarked.

_I’m not sure all of them can_ , Aziraphale thought. He dragged threads of self-control together. “I’m all right. Let’s keep walking.” But he stared down at the little pile of bones for a few more moments, then blessed the soul of the creature who’d once animated them.

* * *

Finally, they reached the walled city. Aziraphale stood at a distance outside it with the woman and her son, irresolute. He had, indeed, missed the moment of the blessing he had been ordered to perform. Gabriel would not be happy.

He also wasn’t ready to return to human civilization. Even from a distance, the city’s souls pressed on the raw wounds in his soul. Worse, he sensed a demonic presence near the gate. Should he try to sneak in? Or should he distract the demon and let the woman go without him?

He dithered long enough that the decision was made for him. He felt the demonic aura take notice of him and begin to approach.

“Dilnaz. You will find safety inside the city, but there is a demon outside the walls. It is approaching now. I think we must part ways.”

He expected her to be fearful, but she just looked tired. “All right.” She picked up the child and turned to leave him.

“Wait. Before you go--” Aziraphale took her free hand in his. His power had trickled back slowly in the desert. It wasn’t much, but he could manage a few blessings and a modest-sized miracle. How best to spend it? The woman was clever, resourceful, creative. As long as she was safe, she would be able to hold her own. He blessed her health and that of her child. He blessed their fortune, that others would always deal fairly with them. He could only hope that the blessings took. Then he miracled her physical safety, laying wards on her skin so that blows would always turn aside. He closed his corporeal eyes to watch the sigils form and meld with her living cells. They sank inward with a satisfying glow, forming a subtle protective shield around her. She wouldn’t be invulnerable—he had to balance the strength and the duration of the magic within his restricted limits—but it was enough to protect against the kinds of blows that women often received from aggressive men.

_It’s not enough. It won’t make any difference. What are you doing, trying to help this useless woman? You should’ve saved your power for Heaven’s errand._

He opened his eyes, and she smiled at him, having felt his grace coursing through her. With the tiny scrap of power he had remaining, he miracled a few copper coins to drop into her hands.

“Thank you. Bless you forever,” she said. “Will we meet again?”

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. He kissed her forehead, and the cheek of the child who slept on her shoulder. “If I return, I will look for you.”

He watched her walk off, toward a city gate. He turned to travel in the opposite direction, checking to see if the demonic aura was following her, or him.

It would be a relief to confront a demon, in a way. A straightforward encounter. None of this saving humans from other humans, wondering who was in the right, who fought on God’s side. And if he lost the fight, well, discorporation-by-demon would at least be understood Above.

He looked over his shoulder until he saw Dilnaz enter the gate safely. Her aura, and her child’s, blended into the hundreds of others inside the walls, and they were gone to him. Aziraphale kept walking until the gate was out of sight, then turned and waited for the demon. He had no power, but he had righteousness on his side.

* * *

The demon wasn’t moving very fast. Aziraphale had planned to wait standing, warrior-like, but he was tired and impatient. He sat on a convenient rocky outcrop and drank from his water skin.

_The water skin. You don’t really need water, you should have given it to the woman, you idiot._

He was weary of arguing with his inner critic. He accepted the criticism and let it pass.

The demon’s slow speed resolved into a zigzagging movement. It finally came into view, an indistinct shape in a ragged, dark robe. It shambled to a stop thirty cubits away.

“Oi! It’ssss Wall Angel!”

“Crawly?” Aziraphale asked, squinting to look for the red hair. In the centuries since Eden he hadn’t seen the serpent again, though he’d banished a few other minor demons back to Hell.

The demon walked closer, if it could be called walking. He—or maybe she? It was hard to tell, so “they,” then—didn’t seem to be entirely in control of their limbs. Aziraphale forgot to hold up his pretense at being threatening. This creature was too ridiculous to threaten.

They stopped again a few cubits away. The feet were bare and dusty, the gray robes now brown with sand, and much more ragged than they’d been at Eden. The hair was still red, underneath dust and dirt, its curls tangled and matted. The aura was shuttered to Aziraphale’s senses, held close to the demon’s body. Aziraphale could only detect a faint ache, as of old wounds, and scent of scorching heat. Torment and fire—demon flavors, to his angelic senses.

Crawly titled their head side to side like a bird would, sizing up Aziraphale with those uncanny slitted eyes. “You look tidy enough. Why’re you leaking then?” they asked.

“Leaking?” Aziraphale repeated. _Why are you conversing with Hell’s agent?_ He summoned his dignity. “I should smite you where you stand, serpent,” he spat.

“Whyfor? What’ve I done?” Crawly asked, surprised.

“You. Your presence explains everything. You must be why the humans are fighting these endless wars. You’re behind the violence and the suffering. All those innocent people and animals. It’s pure evil.”

“I. Me? Naw,” they said, holding up open hands. “Killing’s _really_ not my style.”

“Don’t lie to me! I know you made them do it.”

“Honestly, Wall Angel. Why would I wanna see innocents dead, for Satan’s sake? They’d go to the wrong place.” A bony finger pointed upward.

_That’s what Gabriel said about innocents, too. I wonder which side really likes innocents dying?_

Aziraphale was outraged that his inner voice could come up with something so awful. He straightened into his stiffest warrior stance. “I’m sure I don’t know why you want to cause war and mayhem. You’re a _demon_. It’s what you do.” Crawly looked amused, which was profoundly irritating. “I _will_ smite you,” Aziraphale said to the smug face.

Crawly guffawed so loudly it nearly knocked them off their feet. They cocked their head sideways again and looked Aziraphale up and down. “Wall Angel, you couldn’t smite a mouse right now, you’re tapped out. I could see it from a mile away.”

“I—what? How?” That was terrifying.

“S’what I’m telling you. You’re _leaking_. Aura all over the place, telling the world what shape you’re in. You really oughtta lock that down.”

“Lock it—what?”

“Y’know, keep your aura inside your corporation. It’sss _everywhere_.” They windmilled their arms for emphasis, and nearly fell over.

“Rubbish! Then how would I find humans in need of my aid! You’re trying to make me blind.”

Crawly scrunched up their nose. “What are you talking about? Everywhere humans are, they need help. You hardly need special angel woo-woo senses to figure _that_ out.”

_He has a point_.

“Shut up,” Aziraphale said, both to Crawly and the internal voice. But he exerted an effort to pull the boundaries of his aura closer to himself. He wasn’t accustomed to the exertion, and his corporation felt too tight. His awareness of all the souls in the city faded. All their happiness and pain was muted. There was only Crawly near him, with the tingly heat and dull pain of their demonic aura, giving away very little in the way of emotion except the tang of curiosity.

“That’ss a _little_ better,” Crawly said, rubbing their face.

“What do you want?” Aziraphale demanded.

“Mostly I wanted to get you to stop shouting your angel-goodness everywhere. Satan, you’re like standing next to the Sun.”

_Probably not good to be so obvious._

With an exasperated sigh, Aziraphale exerted himself and pulled his aura in even closer, until he could barely sense the demon anymore. Crawly sighed with relief.

“And then what?”

“Maybe I’ll follow you around a little. I’d love to hear all about the _evil_ you think I’m perpetrating.” They waggled their eyebrows ridiculously. “Might give me some ideas for reports Below.”

Aziraphale was so tired. He looked at the distant walls of the city, imagining baths and sweet fragrances and pretty art that humans created. But if he entered the city now, the demon would follow him, and the humans would be in danger.

_Better not._

For once, Aziraphale agreed with the voice. He looked past the city at a tangle of rocky hills. “My way goes up there,” he said.

Crawly raised their eyebrows. “Where are you headed?”

“That’s Heavenly business,” Aziraphale said with as much dignity as he could muster.

Crawly smiled like they’d been told a great joke. Aziraphale realized that Crawly knew he was lying. And that Crawly knew he knew. His head hurt.

“Sounds fun. Lead on,” Crawly said with a grin, sweeping their arm toward the mountains and nearly falling over again.

“What! You can’t walk with me. It’s not proper.”

“Listen, I’ve met a lot of humans I bet you haven’t. I’ve got all sorts of stories to tell you. Maybe some you can take credit for, eh? You tell me your stories, I’ll tell you mine, and when we run out of stories I’ll leave, all right? Deal?”

Aziraphale was ashamed to find the prospect of stories so tempting. _They won’t be bothering humans if they’re bothering you instead, you realize. You can keep the demon away from humans without lifting a finger. You can manage that much, can’t you?_

Resignedly, Aziraphale turned away from the city and headed for the mountains, not looking back. He hoped Dilnaz and Persi would be all right without him to make arrangements. He bundled all his love for them and wrapped it around one more tiny blessing that they’d quickly find a safe situation, and then blasted it at the town.

Crawly looked sharply at him, but shook it off and said, “So. Humans have come up with so many clever things—”

“True. Weaving, pottery, animal husbandry—”

“Those are all well and good, but lemme tell you about this great human invention called _gambling_ ….”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. I have a lot of plans for this universe, exploring the early days of our angel and demon's work on Earth, including their first experiences of many fine human inventions, and the slow development of their friendship. The next story will be from Crawly' point of view.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Comments and kudos give me life.

**Author's Note:**

> There are 3 chapters in this story, which is itself just a small piece of a huge world that's tumbling around in my head. The show gave us 4000 years of history with only one event -- the Flood -- by which time Aziraphale and Crowley seemed to know each other enough to banter. And then we get to Rome, and they're their fully developed modern characters. What happened in that first thousand years for Aziraphale to not be alarmed by the demon's presence or insulted by his questions? How did we get to an angel tempting a demon to oyster consumption? I want to know -- or, I want to write.
> 
> I welcome comments, kudos, questions, and kind critique. They feed me and encourage me to write more. Thank you so much for your attention and time.


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